Everbound
by 3zioand5ofia
Summary: (Sequel of YHMW) Ziio should have died in a fire in 1760. But by incredible chance, she is rescued...by former lover, Haytham Kenway. He carries her back to his house and begins to heal her. As Ziio recovers, they wonder: did they ever truly move on from one another? How many more times will their paths cross? Has destiny bound them together? Rated T for violence and language.
1. One: Nostalgia

**HAYTHAM**

Some said the forest was alive.

They said the trees swaying simultaneously was a dance. The branches waltzed to the wind: the instrument of nature. Along with this sound came a choir of chanting birds. The dew dripped from the fingers of leaves in rhythm. They were the people who would tell you that – when a squirrel leapt from tree to tree – the rustling branches were the woods whispering. Spreading rumours.

Of course, it was a load of nonsense. This absurd level of doctrine could only come from the people inhabiting the forest. Though I admired their imagination. Being rational as I was, imagination was out of my grasp.

It was reassuring that the trees couldn't spread rumours. Because these ones would have scandalous information about me.

_Even so, do they still hold memories?_

* * *

I often thought of this as I rode past the valley.

Below the sloping hills, inconspicuously tucked away, lay Ziio's village. A place of underdevelopment – but peace. Though I never dared to go near it. It made my stomach churn when I thought of her last words to me:

_"Leave! Leave this place and never return! For, if you do, I shall tear your heart out with my own hands!"_

Malicious as these words were, passing the valley was the only time I could listen to her. Of course it was not _Ziio._ But I could use the forest as an excuse. An excuse to satisfy the nostalgia in my heart.

I could say that the trees held memories of our days together. I could say that Ziio's voice drifted through the treetops; bounced around the clearing; echoed into the valley. Sometimes I was tempted to follow it to her village, but took hold of my senses at once.

Today the nostalgia burned brighter than ever. Yet it was not her _voice_ that led me into the valley – but the scent.

I halted my mare. Before me lay a beautiful outstretch of undisturbed woodland. The trees stood tall in their pride; the grass was a rolling carpet of lush green.

But something was wrong: the air was murkier than the Thames. It tasted industrial and natural at the same time.

I nudged my horse on, tasting the air as she walked. The blackened scent became more and more distinct as I skirted the plane landscape. Eventually, I saw it: a colossal grey cloud, rising over the slope.

_Smoke in the forest? But why?_

I bit my lip. Where there was smoke, there was fire. But how hazardous?

I did not refrain from being curious. I trotted along the path, into the sickening stench. The air became thicker and thicker; eventually I could not see anything. But between the curtains of smoke..._Ah_. It was a hungry orange flame, swallowing a mound of debris. It was distant, mind. It peaked over the top of the trees; its hiss was barely audible.

I shook my head. _Why is the smoke out of control?_

Like me, my horse began gasping for air. I did not want to be cruel to her. I would have to continue this investigation on foot. So I dismounted and carefully sidled down the hills. The foul fog was such that I could barely see where I was walking; I nearly tripped. The smoke filled my lungs as I edged downhill, making me cough.

But over the sound of my spluttering was something else. I could hear distant voices. But not normal voices. Blood-curdling screams like banshees on the brink of death.

_I need to get closer._

I squinted through my watering eyes. The flame grew taller and taller as I approached. But what was burning? I looked around me. The tree trunks were barely visible, now. But on the hills above I saw something most peculiar.

It was the small silhouette of a person. A young child, perhaps. About five. His hair was sleek and black; his clothing beige and bulky for his small frame. Clearly he was a Mohawk. But he was so far away, and the smoke was so blinding...

_If I follow him, I may find the fire._  
_Why the curiosity, Haytham?_

But I could not answer that question. Why was I so fascinated with all this? Purely because Ziio lived near here?

_No. She is in my past. Not my life._

The boy began to sprint down the hill at breakneck speed. A raw howl erupted from him as he dashed straight into the smokiest part of the valley's pit. Stupid, stupid child. If one thing's more deadly than fire, it is the fumes. He just plunged straight for them.

_Where did he go? Why did he shout?_  
_There's only one way to find out._

Crouched low, I edged towards his trail. Continually I told myself that this was ridiculous. Why was this mysterious fire my concern?

_I know the answer, deep down. _  
_Do not...think of it..._

It turned out that the boy's yell was not singular. Nearby the distant hiss came more cries: men, women and multiple children. A bad sign, clearly. I knew I should give up. Besides, all the risk...and for what? I knew that I may have been crawling straight into danger. I was very aware of the risks. But I had circled death for so long, now. I was used to danger.

I was not, however, used to the smoke. It swirled in huge plumes like a enraged rainclouds. I gagged and blinked furiously, trying to breathe. But suddenly the air became slightly thinner. I looked up, searching for the boy. Yet I found something completely different.

The boy was not there. Behind a few overgrown bushes were buildings. Buildings made of wood and forest debris. I recognised them at once as the buildings of the Mohawk village. Those were the exact bushes and buildings Ziio and I sat between once. They had not changed at all...

Except that they were on fire. I gasped.

It was no light blaze, but furious flames devouring them like the mouth of hell. It exhaled its dark clouds with a hiss. I could feel the heat, even from where I crouched. I'd never seen anything like it.

A spine-chilling scream tore through the foul air. I knew what that meant: someone had set the village alight.

Which meant...which meant that Ziio was in danger.

This revelation was enough for me. I sprung to my feet. My heart – already racing from the smoke – made me jolt with the force of being shot. I whipped around, left to right, frantic, paralysed. A Mohawk woman ran in front of the burning building. I ducked – and prayed not to be seen.

Perhaps it was the smoke playing with my mind. Perhaps it was my heart rate. Perhaps it was the nostalgia. But something changed me, there and then. I devised a sudden, thoughtless and idiotic plan.

_I need to find Ziio._


	2. Two: Up In Smoke

**Hey, guys! Really sorry that it took a whole week to write this chapter: I'm back at school now and still adapting to find time for writing. Anyway, I hope you understand. :) Enjoy!**

* * *

**HAYTHAM**

Emotions raced through me more quickly than my heartbeat.

The first was doubt.

What if this was not even Ziio's village? There were many Mohawk settlements here.

_No. Those bushes are the exact ones we sat by.  
__No time to think, Haytham. Move!_

I stumbled through the smoke; through the bushes. Negative adrenaline burned through me like the blazing heat. Even the brown ground was crumbling. The buildings blackened; the wood shrivelled. But I needed to find her.

Over this hiss of the crackling flames, a voice told me: _This is ridiculous. What are you dong, Haytham? You are a Templar. You do not barge into villages to rescue Mohawks.  
_

_But I cannot let her die._

My heart pounded furiously as I scanned the area. The sky above pulsed with an unnatural orange light, like a war god had struck it. What was I going to do? I had no plan. This was a stupid idea, I knew it.

But the distant wails encouraged me to carry on. I raced uninvited through the dusty path, narrowly dodging a burning building.

_Left or right?_

I swerved to the right and sprinted like a wildcat. My head was heavy; blood bubbled in my mouth. Buildings on either side spat hot sparks like a volcano. I could feel the heat from either side.

_Must...keep...going._

Along the alleys ablaze I dashed. A man with no plan; a fool with an impossible purpose. How was I ever going to find her? It'd been five years. I had little clue which house was hers. What if she was capable of saving herself? Being Ziio – a woman of the utmost strength – she surely was?

_I need to be certain_.

The alleyways opened up to one of the only buildings not on fire. It was a crisscross of dead ends: the buildings almost overlapped. But I had no time to notice. A few jet-black-haired women and children scurried across the clearing. None of them saw me.

_Hide, Haytham! You do not want to be seen!_  
_But this is an emergency! No time!_

Instinct outwitted my urgency. I dived behind one of the stick walls, chest heaving. I peaked at the Mohawks again. Two of the women were carrying infants with wild hair; the last clutched the trembling hand of a small girl. I wanted them to move; to leave the clearing so I could continue. Ziio could be dead, or dying by now! I shook with desperate impatience.

But from behind them, a voice called. When its owner came into view, I squinted to get a better look. It was the boy I saw earlier. The one with the spiky long hair and ragged clothes. He sprinted up to the women from my left. They halted – and listened. He spoke to them in a raised voice, but (of course) in his own language. I did not speak their tongue, but I was observant enough to know that the boy's sense of urgency was level with my own.

The women shook their heads and continued. The Mohawk boy turned, and – to my horror – looked directly in my eye.

Time slowed to a halt. I wanted to duck out of sight, but I was paralysed. I had been detected. By a child. What was wrong with me? But no; he hadn't _noticed_. He looked straight beyond me, like I blended against the wood. His eyes were a shade of shimmering brown, identical to Ziio's. The ones that used to pierce me like arrows. But these ones were full of fear and determination.

And then, without warning, he charged.

At first I thought he was headed straight for me. Though he swiftly swerved around a corner, disappearing behind the building. He seemed to be roaring a single word over and over.

"Ista! Ista! Ista!"

I was no expert, but I wondered if that was a call of danger.

_What do I do now?_  
_Think, think, think!_

_"Ista! Ista!"_

The boy's voice was now distant. Suddenly an explanation clicked. Perhaps he was helping others evacuate! If he was far away by now...he would be going round to all the houses. Meaning...

_Ziio._

Perhaps it was this theory, or perhaps it was the astounding eyes. I saw something in that child that I trusted. I needed to tail him.

* * *

Now, I thought, through the thickening smoke, I simply watch Ziio come out safely and leave. I only want to see her safe. I will cause no trouble. No trouble.

My target put on a sudden burst of speed; his cries became louder. Before long he'd disappeared from my restricted sight.

"Ista! Ista!"

I struggled not to gag as I turned the corner. I could not lose sight of the boy. That was vital. A difficult task, considering the smoky guise choking me.

The boy was already round another corner. Where the hell had he run to? I swept a wild look around. Nothing. Only two perishing buildings on either side, one of which I'd hid behind. A log lay propped up between the two. _Aha._ _He must've ducked._

"Ista!"

I sprung to life and followed his voice. I didn't care if there could've been Mohawks watching me. I didn't care that I was roasting like a spit. I didn't care that the smoke was wrapping round my lungs.

And there he was.

He was now kneeling down and working furiously at a pile of singed rubble. Perhaps he was digging through it. Sparks flew onto his shoulders and scolded him; he did not flinch. Undeterred, he tore handfuls of burnt wood away like a mutt digging for a bone. Though there was still much of it to dig through: this building had suffered the worst. Half-collapsed, half-melted and blacker than tar, it stood on the brink of caving in.

But inside the building...I could hear a female voice.

It was coarse and choky, but there was a voice in there nonetheless. The boy yelled back at the woman supposedly trapped in the building. I listened, squinting with the effort to block out the cruel crackling surrounding me. The voice was...familiar. But was it Ziio? I couldn't tell. Nonetheless, I was not taking any chances. I just wanted to make sure she was alive. If she was not here, I'd creep back to the village entrance (or wherever everyone had evacuated to) and spot her. Then I'd go home. Simple.

A bald Mohawk rushed up to the boy as if from nowhere. He grabbed him by the arm and hurled him away from the building. The child kicked and screamed in protest, flailing like a puppet.

"Ista!" he roared.

Just in time was he dragged from my sight. With a dreadful crash the remaining roof tumbled to the ground, bringing the blackened building down with it. So someone – a woman – was trapped in there.

_Should I rescue her?_  
_No. It is not worth the risk._  
_What if it is the boy's mother?_  
_What does that mean to you?_  
_What if it is Ziio_?

Ziio. Her name was enough for me to lunge stupidly forward to find a way into the building. What the hell was I doing? The rubble was still white-hot! The woman could be dead!

I grasped great handfuls of treacle-like wood and flung them aside. Each handful scorched my skin; I bit my tongue in pain. But I didn't care. My head was aching; my heart hammering. This was not healthy. I needed to leave! Now!

The rubble was thin enough that I could see a body in there. The two sides of the building had collapsed on each other...but not hit the ground. There was enough room for the woman not to be crushed.

As it thinned and my hand was raw, I could see her clearly. She lay spread-eagled on the earth. Thick dark plaits fell across her face. Immense blisters bubbled on her arms and legs. Her clothing – clearly once a similar complexion to her coffee skin – was black. Worst of all, blood was leaking from the side of her head.

I gasped...and nearly inhaled a cloud of smoke. I dropped the last handful of rubble. My heart plummeted down into my churning stomach.

It was Ziio. And she was unconscious.


	3. Three: Bittersweet

**HAYTHAM**

One heartbeat.

That was how far I was from screaming her name. All the swarms of smoke, all the hissing, the distant cries and blazing heat died away. The scars on my hands were nothing, _nothing_, to the slurry of exposed skin on Ziio's body. Never mind my thumping heart. The question was if hers was beating at all. Tears in my eyes, I began to panic.

_What do I do? Carry her to safety?_  
_No! That is absurd, Haytham!_

Yet before me lay the beautiful woman who'd enchanted my life, in a mess of raw skin and pools of dry blood. All resistance I had left was mute to me. I needed to do something. The first on that list was get out of here.

Ziio's warm body was limp as I scooped her from the rubble. Her clothes crumbled at my touch; ashes and blood rained on the ground. I could not believe I was doing this. I still could not overcome the trauma in such a short time. I whipped around, searching desperately for an inconspicuous exit. I was in luck. The hill was in sight behind some thick and (thank God) not aflame bushes. I cupped my palm on Ziio's bleeding head and hurtled through the thicket.

* * *

Time was already running out when I was at the top of the hill. Though the air was clean now, I could barely gasp for breath. But I did not care. I was taking her home.

I threw her roughly over the saddle and leapt on the mare's back. How on earth was I to make sure Ziio didn't fall? I grabbed both of her hands and tried to sit her up. Her head drooped like a dandelion; her hair swished in her bloody face. I crossed her senseless arms over my shoulders and tucked them into the strap on my cloak. I'd have to ride carefully. I snagged on the reins and my horse leapt into life.

Despite the sense of emergency, I could not help but notice a bittersweet feeling growing on me. My horse broke into a gallop...and Ziio's head kept drooping on my shoulder. Her flesh was flaky and cold. But I could feel it. It was almost surreal. It was a sudden feeling of how things used to be, and how this was not right.

The trees whipped past like the wind as we rode faster and faster. I needed to reach my estate before time ran out! Who was I to know if Ziio was to live or die?

_I will need a doctor._

But the nearest doctor was in Boston. There was no way that Ziio would make that journey. A dribble of blood slithered across my cloak. Her head was still bleeding. I would have to perform basic treatment at home.

When I at last reached my large house, I dismounted and placed Ziio on the ground. I ushered my horse into the stable. I tore past my stable hand – Robert – nearly tripping the poor young lad right over. I snatched Ziio from where I left her in my crop field and burst inside.

A baffled servant and startled maid moved straight out of my way. No questions. I realise now how unusual I must've looked with an unconscious Mohawk woman in my arms, blisters on both of us and blood dripping down my cloak. Across the hallway. Up the wooden stairs. A swerve to the right.

I burst into the guest bedroom and threw her onto the bed. I half-turned, about to disappear downstairs...but something stopped me. Perhaps it was the way Ziio was lying so peacefully, or maybe it was the glorious gloss to her hair, or maybe even the fact that even with her injuries she seemed the same. But she was beautiful. Quite beautiful.

_No time! She needs dressing for her head!_

Snapping back into focus, I dashed back onto the landing. I missed two or three stairs at a time, almost slipping up on the last one. But I didn't care.

"Rose!" I panted to my maid, "I need you to find some bandages, water and pins. Quickly!"

Rose was so baffled that she simply nodded. She dashed off into the drawing room.

"Henry!" I called to my older servant, "I need you to ride to Boston and find a doctor. I'm so sorry for this inconvenience. But that woman's life is at risk. I need her to stay alive. Do you think that is possible?"

He nodded his greying head, and disappeared in a flash.

* * *

It was at times like this when I felt fortunate. I was very lucky to have such obedient servants with immediate responses. Without them, Ziio would've died there and then. Rose began dressing the dreadful blisters on Ziio's arms and legs. She insisted I left the room as she worked on the rest. I found this request most odd, considering I'd seen Ziio at her worst...and in many other forms.

And so I paced anxiously up and down the corridor. When would the doctor arrive? Would he buy us enough time? A dark thought rippled through my mind: an image of Ziio, cold, still, senseless. I felt a shiver shoot me in the spine. I simply could not imagine it, carrying on with life knowing that she was gone. Nor could I picture living with her memory in my house. But why? Why this sudden concern? What did it matter to me if she lived or died?

If I hadn't seen her just minutes beforehand, I would have practically forgotten that the woman existed. Fascinating, what one may forget in such a short time. Five years was nothing. So something in seeing her – half-raw from carnivorous flames – had changed me. I was still overwhelmed by the actions I'd taken. It was like someone else was controlling me. Somebody was pulling strings at the usual, dignified Haytham.

My thoughts were soon interrupted. The click of the door announced the doctor's arrival.

* * *

"Will she wake?" I asked, biting my lip.

The doctor scratched his ageing chin, having properly dressed her wound. He sat on a chair beside the bed. Spectacles perched on nose, took one final look and turned to me.

"She appears to have suffered a severe blow to the head."

_Severe. _I didn't like the sound of that.

"However, as you reacted so promptly, Mister..."

"Kenway," I finished.

He grunted. "She will hopefully wake within twenty-four hours. However..." He trailed away, looking at Rose for support. The young maid simply shrugged; she was no expert. I did not like this uncertainty.

"However...?" I pressed.

"Her burns are such that walking shall be painful for the woman."

"For 'ow long?" It was Rose who asked in her Yorkshire accent.

"Oh...I am not to know."

_Yes you are. You're a doctor._

"Surely an estimate never did anyone any harm?" I said coldly, drumming my fingers on my hidden blade.

The old man's watery eyes squinted into my own. It was almost like he was trying to read my threat. "If you insist. About a month, I should say."

"Wh –" I spluttered. "I'm sorry? A – did you say a _month_?"

He nodded nonchalantly.

Oh no. How on earth was I going to keep Ziio here for a month? And what of when she woke? How would she react?

"No. I cannot nurse her for a month! I have duties to perform!"

"As do many, sir," the doctor purred. At that remark I wanted to eject the blade unto his bloody throat. That'd teach him.

Though I refrained from doing this; I just sighed. "All right. What are my options?"

"I could take her to the clinic in Boston –"

"No."

My answer was so defiant that I wanted to snatch it back. Rose tilted her capped head in surprise. The doctor's eyes widened. But I stayed still, watching Ziio's scarlet chest, rising, falling. Why would I do such an inhumane thing to her fierce heart? Everyone I'd known who'd gone to the place had never come out. Rumours stated that the conditions were fit for feral dogs; not humans. No wonder half the patients died.

"Then I am afraid I cannot help you," he stated coolly.

This man was bringing my blood to the boil. My fists clenched; I bit my tongue to tame my anger. Why was he refusing to treat Ziio? Because she was a Mohawk? Outrageous. Why did nobody understand that Ziio was a human? She had a heart and mind. The most courageous I'd ever come across.

"Fine," I spat. "I will treat her."

The doctor simply nodded, rose from his seat and curled his lip. I slipped a handful of coins into his hand and Rose led him downstairs. He spoke no words, not even a grunt of thanks. He had what he wanted: money.

But I was still denied the one thing I wanted. I had to see that Ziio was safe.

I watched her broken body as she slept. I wondered what she saw in her unconsciousness. Her final moments? The building closing in like the grasp of a monster? Memories? Voices? Whatever it was, I hoped it would end for her soon. Yet she looked so peaceful, almost like she was asleep. But I wanted her awake.

_Please, Ziio._ I thought. _Wake up. Please._


	4. Four: Awakening

**WARNING: This chapter is ridiculously long. Sorry! I hope it's not too long for you, though! Enjoy!**

* * *

**HAYTHAM**

Twenty-four hours had never gone so slowly.

I spent far too much time by Ziio's side. I simply sat next to her bed, watching, wishing, waiting. Rose had long since disposed of Ziio's burnt garments; she replaced them with one of her own nightgowns. The white fabric gave her face a different kind of charm: it made her purer. More gentle. It added a kiss of elegance to her horrific injuries. Her chest continued to rise and fall, and even that was graceful, in a certain way.

But it was still too much to bear. This obsession with Ziio was unhealthy for me. Her beauty whilst asleep was only temporary. Even so, it was a beauty that I yearned to see once in a while; to ensure that yesterday was not a dream. Quite immature for a grown man like myself.

_What is wrong with me?_

At one point in the morning I knelt to pray. I am not a man of great spirit, yet this day seemed a suitable occasion to reflect. Silently I begged the Lord to save her; to wash away all pain for her. I opened my eyes and glanced up at Ziio. Her once-dainty hand hung loosely by her side. It was inches from my face. So why did she seem so untouchable? Was it just me not wishing to overdo it, or was it that she was sleeping? It would not feel right to hold the charred skin in my palm while she was empty-headed. It was a hollow action only for those begging for affection. I was not one of them.

I rose and left the room, feeling somewhat bitter. I simply had no clue what to do with myself. I wanted to talk to someone; to take my mind off Ziio. But I couldn't. I wandered downstairs into the drawing-room.

On entry I could see that I was not alone: Henry stood polishing certain silver objects on the mantlepiece. He turned to face me standing by the door.

"I've polished the silver, sir," he declared. "Are there any other preparations for tomorrow's meeting that you would like me to fulfil?"

I gasped. I'd forgotten all about the meeting! Tomorrow evening I was to host a meeting in the drawing-room with William, Charles, Benjamin and Thomas about the precursor site and surrounding land. I'd not seen any of the colonial Templars for nearly a week now, but I had given them firm instructions to stay by the storehouse. The meeting had been arranged such a long time ago and was overshadowed by the arrival of my unconscious guest.

I had to keep Ziio hidden from them. If they found her – the woman whom I was always suspiciously absconding with – I would lose every ounce of trust from them. What would that do to my job? My position? They would think me a fool, to keep a Mohawk in my house. We'd presumably lost trust from them after my relationship with Ziio ended. The Templars would give me the worst possible label: a traitor.

"Sir?" Henry interrupted my sudden panic..

"No thank you, Henry," I replied. "Truth be told I had forgotten about this meeting tomorrow evening. Well remembered."

"Not at all," he purred.

"Come. You have worked all morning. Sit down for a moment."

Henry's brown eyes blinked. I never told my servant to take a break; there was always much to be done. But today, I felt softened, and I needed to talk to someone. He nodded vigorously and took a seat on one of the ornate chairs by the fireplace. I sat in another opposite and sighed.

"It must be the woman's arrival...the reason why I am forgetting such important affairs."

"Only natural, Master Kenway," he shrugged.

Silence. We both found something to look at: I chose the small oil painting above the fireplace. It was of a Tudor woman with pale skin dressed in her Sunday best, loosely clutching a feather. I studied it in the awkward silence, wondering.

"Erm, if you don't mind me asking, sir...?" Henry stammered.

"What?"

"Who is the woman you brought in yesterday afternoon?"

I sighed. "Just someone significant from my past. I have not had contact with her for several years now, but when I found her in such a state..." I trailed away. What could I say about when I found her? That a ridiculous feeling grew on me that I should help? "I could not leave her to die."

"I see. Well, it would appear that you discovered her at a good time."

"Yes indeed. Given another second and she'd probably be dead. But listen, Henry: I ask just one thing of you."

"Go ahead, sir."

"That you utter not a word of her existence to anyone outside this house. Nobody can know that she is here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. But how do you intend to keep her being here a secret when she is awake?"

I shook my head, staring at the rug below. "Of course, it'll need some input from Ziio. She will understand when she wakes. I just wish that she would wake sooner or later."

"I can go and check on her, if you like?"

"No need," I decided suddenly, "I shall do it myself."

* * *

**ZIIO**

Darkness. An age of nothing but darkness.

I can't even recall when I started to feel that numbness, or how and when I fell. Why could I not feel anything? Why wouldn't I wake up from this blank dream? Was I even still alive, or was I dead?

_ No. I would be with Iottsitíson if I was dead.  
__Who is Iottsitíson?  
__I don't remember._

What were these voices in my head? Were they my voices? And if I really was trapped inside a senseless body...how was it such that I could hear them?

They whispered in different tones like a echo in my memory. Many fragments of things I'd heard before, somewhere, somehow. They repeated themselves to make a collage of sound.

"Agh, it's nothing."  
"DON'T...YOU EVER...DO THAT...TO ME...AGAIN!"

What was the voice I was hearing so often?

"I...I should go."  
"I had to see you."  
"Ziio? I love you."  
"I'll see you safe. You have my word."

That was when it happened. Everything came flooding back at once. It was like water trickling through my skin. I could_ feel_. Something smooth teased my back. I was...lying down on something soft. And I could hear myself breathing.

That was only for a second. Immediately after came the most excruciating pain I'd ever felt. Searing stings throbbed all over my skin. I winced and jolted madly in agony...but I couldn't open my eyes. I tensed, and heard my muffled voice groaning. That was when I remembered.

_Oh no. The Templars. The fire. My son._

I opened my eyes. Both the pain and the light was blinding; I could not see a thing. Above my head was a white oblivion. But the pain was clearer than before. It pulsed through my limbs intensely; I clutched my legs in pain.

Slowly, very slowly, the light began to soften. The silence was discomforting. Why were there no flames? No darkness? No screams? Was this a dream?

_Where am I?_

I blinked and leant upright. I was no longer outside. I was in a bed. A brass, four-poster bed. I gasped. The room I lay in was dark, like murky wood. In fact, that was what the floor was made of. There was an ornate rug below the bed, too. I craned my neck to look at it...but it was immediately paralysed by agony. The door was also made of oak – or something of the sort. The walls were something else. Brick? I couldn't tell. On the other side of the room was a chest of drawers with several decorations on it. Above was a small glass window. From the blurred image I could see, it was daytime.

At last I could hear my own voice moaning. Where was this stinging coming from? I pulled back the covers...and horror struck me.

Not only was I wearing a long white gown, but my head was wrapped in some sort of cloth. But that was not all: my arms, legs, neck and shoulders were a pulp of red, burnt skin. The foremost layer had flaked away. I could barely look at the devil's mark on my body. What happened to me?

_Surely this is a dream?_

Yes, it had to be. My head was becoming heavier and heavier. It was like a hand was forcing it to spin. The agony made me feel nauseous, such that I could not take it. Suddenly, the door seemed very far away...

Perhaps an hour went by, or even a minute. The only sense of time I had was the rhythmic pulses of pain through my body. I couldn't take this _before_ the real drama started. So I certainly couldn't take it after.

I heard the door open softly, followed by creaking footsteps. I could barely manage to open my eyes, but sensed someone's presence by the bed. They placed something down with a dull clunk

Silence. No breath. No groans of pain. No movement. Even underneath the unbearable agony, I knew this was wrong.

So I opened my eyes...and wished I had not. I nearly choked on the indoor air. My body tensed...but it was a different kind of tension. A tension of alarm. My head began whirling all over again.

Knelt over on the wooden floor was Haytham.

Haytham Kenway.

A wave of emotions doubled this dystopia. He was exactly the same: triangular cap, red ribbon holding back a tight black ponytail, large grey cloak and black boots. And he was here, his back to me and bending over a bowl on the floor.

Confusion. What devilish tricks were corrupting me? How could it be him? Excitement. The man who changed my heart, and anger, for the man who broke it, was here. Desperation. I needed answers. How had I developed such a dreadful injury? Haytham was not there in the fire. How did I get here? What was Haytham doing? Had he noticed me? Something screamed at me to say something; to ensure this was real.

It was. He turned...and the pain momentarily lessened as his clear blue eyes drank me in. He knelt over me, wet cloth in hand.

I tried to find my voice. But it was locked. How was I to respond? I couldn't. I was exhausted and bewildered, and subject to torture. Haytham said nothing as he dabbed the wet cloth on my neck. The fluid soaked into the stings, soothing them quickly. I blinked furiously; my eyes were drooping.

"H...Haytham?" I barely whispered.

He smiled warmly, making my breath leave me too soon. "Ziio," he murmured.

Maybe it was his English voice. Maybe it was the fluid he applied. It was all too much. Drained, pained and head whirling like a natural storm, I felt my head sink into the pillow. Everything turned to blackout.

* * *

**Hey! So sorry this chapter was so long. And also the description of Ziio's awakening may not have been brilliant: I've never woken up from being unconscious before! So I'm really sorry about that, but I hope you weren't put off. Hopefully the next chapter will be shorter. Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review!**

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	5. Five: Conception, Misconception

**HAYTHAM  
**

"How is she?"

It was Henry, stood in the hall as I descended the staircase.

I smiled. "She was awake...momentarily. I think that finding herself in such unusual circumstances was overwhelming. She went back to sleep."

"Poor mite," he sighed, biting his dry lip.

"Oh, she is no mite," I replied. "When I knew her she was strong. More courageous than most men, in fact. If only you would see her in that state."

_What am I saying? I sound like an elder, reminiscing. _That must've been the first time I'd ever pined for the past. Even as a child when my father died, I looked not back on the events that could've happened. I set my sights firmly on what would happen; what I'd make sure _would_ happen. Back then I was certain. So something had changed.

It had to be Ziio.

How could her sleeping body stir up such a sadness? Now all I could think of was what could've happened if we remained. Perhaps she would never be in her critical condition. I would've protected her. I would've saved her sooner. But no; it wasn't out of love that I saved her. It was that I might never have to live with the guilt of not saving her. In other words, I had saved Ziio for _my_ benefit. I didn't expect it to backfire.

But now, here she was: skinless like an onion and barely conscious. How was I to hide her for a whole month? She'd surely protest? When she had taken hold of her senses, how would she react to seeing me? Her last words to me were out of anger. Had that impression stayed?

I was about to find out.

By midday or thereabouts, I ascended the stairs again, bowl of essence in hand. I tiptoed across the grand hallway and knocked on the door. No answer. Not surprising, I thought. Ziio was most likely asleep.

The door creaked open at my touch. At a glance, everything was exactly as it was before. The rug was straight, the ornaments on the chest of drawers untouched, the small mirror in the corner completely spotless, the desk behind the door relatively clean. Ziio had not moved or touched anything, clearly. I edged closer, shutting the door behind me. Though her heavy breathing indicated that she was asleep, Ziio's eyes were slightly open. They blinked to their full intensity on seeing me.

I ignored her and placed the bowl on the table beside the bed. I heard her move in the bed; she sat up slowly. As I turned, her pupils widened. Her face was one of confusion and wonder. Again, it hardly surprised me. I would be terribly perplexed if I found myself in her situation.

"Hello again," I said softly.

"H-Haytham?" Her voice was lower than before. "Wha- what are you –"

"Ssh," I whispered. I pressed a finger to my lips. "I know exactly what you were to ask. What am I doing here."

She stared with her youthful brown eyes, dumbfounded.

"In answer to that, I'm here to help you."

"Wha-?" she sighed, shaking her head. Clearly this was hard for her to picture. "Where am I?"

"Somewhere safe," I replied. When I felt I could no longer bear her gaze, I busied myself dabbing some cloth into the essence.

"Somewhere safe," she repeated. I sensed a lot of doubt in her tone. I certainly didn't like it.

"How long have I been here?"

"About a day."

She tensed when I placed the damp cloth on her neck. It pained me to see her in such agony; it was the very last thing this courageous woman deserved. She showed no signs of pain. But I was a natural at reading her concealed feelings. Finally, as it appeared to stop stinging her, she relaxed.

"Why am I here?" she demanded harshly.

"No particular reason."

"So that's it," Ziio muttered, her voice darkening like her eyes. "No particular reason. So I was right. I _have_ been kidnapped! So I am here that I might give you information. A subject! A target!"

I doubled backwards. What the hell was she on about? Was this a side effect of the concussion? The anger glinting in her eyes produced a lump in my throat. "What? Subject? Ziio, what are you saying?"

"You know what I speak of!" she snapped.

"I – I cannot say I do..."

"Don't feign ignorance, Haytham!" she snarled. "How do I get out of here?"

"I – Ziio, I'm not feigning ignorance. I know nothing. And there is no possible exit. You cannot walk."

She ignored me. "Where is Ratohnhaké:ton?"

"Who?" I spluttered.

"Where is he?" she cried. Her swift leg movement angered the blisters on her skin. "Ah!" she gasped.

"Ssh," I whispered, kneeling to dab the cloth in the bowl again. What had got into her? What – or who – was this Ratohnhaké:ton she spoke about? I shook my head and turned.

"Don't touch me. Please."

"Ziio, this ointment will ease the pain–"

"No pain is eased for me until I know that Ratohnhaké:ton is safe!"

"I don't know who this person is!" For the first time my voice sounded closer to a yell than a statement. Ziio froze; her rage disappeared. I stood still, my chest heaving. The stunned silence was enough for me to find sense again. "But if it helps you, I shall tell you what I know."

And so I told her how I'd been riding along the previous day and saw the smoke. I spoke about the boy, the valley, the village, finding her half-dead and – finally – about the doctor's words. At each sentence Ziio relaxed more and more; she sank back down in the bed. She remained silent through every part; even when I described in detail the most grizzly scenes. Despite this, I did notice her eyes flash when I mentioned the little boy being dragged away by another Mohawk.

"There," I said afterwards. "I know nothing more. Now, please explain to me why you were so vexed earlier."

She nodded, closing her eyes and rolling over to face the ceiling. "Very well. There is a lot more to the story...than you think."

"Oh?"

"But before I tell you, there is one thing you need to understand."

"What is it?" I asked.

Ziio breathed a deep sigh. She itched her head underneath her white bandage. When she pulled away, flakes of dry blood rested on her reddened fingertips. She looked at me inquiringly.

"Don't touch your head," I ordered. "That is a wound from when the building collapsed. It is what caused you to lose consciousness."

She shuddered, before turning to face me. Her tangled hair fell loosely across her face. It struck me suddenly that she was just as beautiful awake as she was asleep, even in her condition. That was the first time today I'd realised this. Yet it was only for a moment: I pinched myself away from this soft feeling immediately.

"All right," Ziio sighed, almost sleepily. "You were talking about the boy, yes?"

I nodded sheepishly.

"Well...that was Ratohnhaké:ton."

Oh. I was expecting something more dramatic than that. "I see."

"But there is more," Ziio put in. And, with one final look to the ceiling, she said the five words that I would least expect to hear. "Haytham...we have a son."

* * *

**Ooh, another annoying mid-flow ending! Sorry, I like leaving you guys hanging. Mwahahahaha, what an evil person. *ahem*, yes I am perfectly fine, thank you! This would be a good opportunity to say thank you for the (already!) huge amount of support this story has received! I'm absolutely AMAZED by the feedback and responses to Everbound! Means an awful lot! So thank you. Love you guys!**

**:)**


	6. Six: Suspended Between Truths (Part 1)

**HAYTHAM**

Whatever I'd been expecting, it was nothing like what she said.

Ziio's words hit me squarely in the chest, stealing all breath I had. I could not even gasp. My mouth opened and closed in astonishment. I struggled to feel anything. No shock. No anger. No indignation. Nothing.

I looked deep into her eyes again, searching them for signs that she was lying. But why would Ziio lie to me? The only lie she'd ever told was 'I'm fine.' But no; her eyes (although flickery and pained) were truthful.

At last it was her who spoke. "You seem shocked."

I wasn't entirely sure what I was thinking. It simply would not sink in. "I...but...how? When?"

"I tried to tell you," she mumbled sleepily, "the day...the day we settled our differences."

I gulped. The sight of Ziio was taking me back to events I dared not think of. Her trembling hands, placed on her belly. The "illness" described by members of her tribe. The hidden sadness behind her beauty for our final weeks. But worst of all (my goodness, it came with such a blow) I remembered the night that we sinned by the riverbank.

Of course.

I was a fool not to think that this would happen. I still tried to stay impassive as I tossed the events over in my mind. Why did I not read the signs presented to me? Now, I was...

_A father._  
_I have a son._

Son. The word sounded like a poison in my head; an innocent poison which plunged deep into my senses. A poison that paralysed any feeling I had left. I supposed I'd had so many surprises over the last two days; I was immune to even the most shocking news.

"The boy...he was...he is..."

"Our son." Ziio spat out the word 'our' like an odour.

"I..." what was I to ask next? "How old is he?"

"Our tribe do not keep an exact record like you," she said, "but he is about five years of age."

_Five years._ Five years ago, a new creation which I triggered, entered this world. Among the layers of shock and disbelief, I felt a sort of pride. I had a son. I had seen him, not knowing what I was to him. It was only a fleck; an ember. But it was an unmistakable warmth in my cold, calculated heart.

Of course. I saw something in that child that I trusted. It was because of him I had rescued his mother. It was his eyes: shimmering even from the distance, making me swallow my dignity. It was the same sensation whenever Ziio used to look into my soul.

She pulled back her bed sheets; she was obviously too warm in them. She sat up slowly, and immediately my eyes flashed to the eyesore burns on her legs. Ziio, too, stared at what remained of them for several long moments, before she asked:

"What has become of my clothes?"

"They were burnt to ash, Ziio. You could not stay in them."

Her lip curled as she inspected her white gown. Though I thought it gave her a purified beauty, her opinion was nothing of the sort. She huffed deeply.

"You could have prevented this," she hissed in a low voice.

Again, I was so worn by surprises that this unusual (and threatening) statement had no effect. "Could I have? I do not think so."

"Stop pretending. I know of your plans."

"Plans?" I felt my fists clench in annoyance. "For your information, I haven't a bloody clue what you are talking about."

"You may not know everything about what happened." She indicated her legs angrily. "Yet you had power to stop your heartless men. And you did not!"

"My men? What the – _my_ men?"

"Yes, Haytham, _your_ men!" Ziio shouted.

Despite all the dull discoveries, this shocked me the most. Ziio – who only hours ago lay looking innocent and bewitching – displayed anger as raw as her skin. Her voice seemed to echo into the silence; it was a crashing wave rolling around the room. She looked tense in her bed, as if ready to pounce. But she could not. Even this exclamation had tired her fragile body out. She closed her eyes and lay down again. Perhaps she was in pain.

Thus, I dared not flare up. "Please inform me what my men have done." Assumptions filled the back of my head...and they were all too drastic to believe.

"What your men have done," Ziio repeated, her eyes closed. "Very well. I shall tell."

* * *

**Sorry, I had to cut it off there because the next bit is literally enourmous. It's just huge chunky paragraphs! You know, the kind you look at and think 'Omg, that's big...gonna take a while to read that *huff*'...so anyway, next up is an explanation from Ziio! Dun dun dun... **


	7. Seven: Suspended Between Truths (Part 2)

**I just had to split the previous one and this one in half. Otherwise it just would've been so long! I know you guys said you liked the chapters longer, but it would've taken years for me to update too! :) I hope you don't mind. This is simply Ziio telling Haytham what happened. Enjoy!**

* * *

**ZIIO**

"In the morning, my son ventured away from the village to play with the other children. I told him sternly not to trek beyond the valley. To pass the time until his return I aided another mother with washing. We spoke of many things, but we were interrupted. I do not know how the feeling crept across me; the atmosphere was the same as ever. But something was wrong.

"Excusing myself from the woman's hut I made my way to the village entrance. I was simply curious. Of course, nothing was wrong; nothing had troubled us in a long time. Everyone sat, stood and chatted as usual. _This is absurd,_ I told myself firmly, _you are_ _being paranoid._

"To take my mind off the discomfort, I spoke to people there for a while. Everything seemed well; my sense of discomfort was purely because Ratohnhaké:ton was out of my sight. That was my theory. But later, as I spoke with Koshisigre, another man – Canowicakte – yelled: 'Look!'

"Every tongue was silenced. My eye only had to glimpse them to make my stomach plunge. My heart doubled backwards. At the peak of the hill above, marching with forceful determination, were three men in large coats. Each hoisted a glinting gun over their shoulder. They were headed straight for the village entrance.

"A collective gasp rose from my people. Though no-one seemed distressed, it was as if the air was a drum-skin: tight and closed. No-one dared to move. Static mutters filled the area in low tones. Only I was aware of the real danger. As the men marched closer I could see clearly who they were: The Colonial Templars.

"Of course, upon seeing them I looked for you. But you were not there. I wanted to run; to shout to my tribe that these men were troublesome. But I couldn't. My feet clenched on the spot, and I was motionless. One man's glinting eye crept upon me: it was of an icy blue complexion. It matched him perfectly. I should've known that he would recognise me. Your men never liked my people, _ever_ – especially not the woman who stole their Grand Master.

"As our citizens backed away, I was left with a thinning crowd. The three men – still speechless– strolled through the bushes marking the entrance. Their chilling stare fell upon everyone, but the cold-eyed man took his time on me. I remembered some of them by face from the Braddock expedition...and many other horrific memories. Eventually the Clan Mother (my own mother) limped forth to greet the unwelcome visitors.

"They demanded for her to ask some 'questions', as they put it. I was at my mother's side in an instant. I whispered that these men were here looking for trouble. For goodness' sake, the triggers under their curled fingers spoke for themselves. Mother ignored my advice and told the men she'd settle this matter 'inside'. And so she led them to her hut, leaving me to follow closely behind.

"I listened to their conversation inside. They wanted to know something about a storehouse – perhaps like the one I showed you many years ago. I bit my lip as their replies became more and more threatening; the air was heating up. My mother refused to tell them anything. We did not want any trouble.

"At one point the leader told the eldest man to leave and question 'some other elders'. My mother protested at once; she would stand for no such thing inflicted on her people. But the man was out of the hut before either of us could stop him. At the time I thought nothing of it, and did not want to leave Mother alone with these monsters. And so the interrogation continued.

"The cold-eyed man was now positively roaring into Mother's face. I was not to let him get away with this. I took a few steps closer to her (that I was ready to protect her if he lashed out). He did, too: when my mother bellowed that she'd never tell him anything, his fist sailed through the air...only to be stopped by me. I grabbed his wrist quicker than a blink of the eye. His face was thunderstruck that he'd been stopped. His icy-blue eyes narrowed even more. I wasted no time, either: I returned the punch with my own fair fist.

"Time stopped in its tracks. Silence hissed in every ear; blood boiled in every body. The man looked like I'd just snatched his musket and shot him. My fists remained clenched, ready to defend myself; my mother; our name. The third man flew to his leader's side. The leader rubbed his leaking nose and growled. In fact, it was more like a cackle. He took another step closer; he circled me slowly.

"'You, you fierce, brutal _savage_!' With that he returned the blow I gave to him. My lip throbbed like a beating drum; I clutched it in pain. While Mother stood comforting me (and I tried desperately to conceal the suffering), a cry from outside made all of us – the men included – look up.

"It was a shriek like no other: a woman's shrill cry of danger. It was closely followed by one of a child, and finally, screams of: 'Help!' I exchanged a glance of trepidation from Mother. So returned it, and told me to run outside and see what was happening. But the moment I stepped outside, what greeted me was the most vicious horror I could wish for.

"In the distance was a thick cloud of smoke. It rose higher and higher, and it was coming closer. I stood on my tiptoes...and flames were visible. They were very distant...but where else could the screams have come from? I knew what this meant with a gasp. We were being attacked.

"At first I didn't quite know what to do, my heart was beating so violently. My first instinct was to warn Mother. I sprinted back to the hut and screamed: 'Mother! The village is on fire! It is spreading quickly!'

"'What?'

"'Towards the entrance! The tall building –'

"Though my words sounded ridiculous, I was stopped by her at once. Both of us rushed outside to see what was going on. Even now the vicious fire was closer than before...and the smoke clouded in my lungs; I coughed and spluttered madly, desperate to clear the poison from my chest. But who would do such a thing? There was no possible way that a fire that huge would spontaneously begin. This was on purpose...which could only mean one thing. Their third man was responsible.

"I whipped around. How could they? How could they disrupt the peace of our village like this? I felt anger boil my blood despite everything. I was going to face them, right there, right then. I hurtled back inside the smoky hut, fists ready to strike again.

"But they were not there. In the few precious moments while we stood stunned by the ferocious flames, they'd fled. The cowardly, heartless monsters. That was what they wanted: to punish us for not giving us information. I realise that now.

"Upon telling Mother this, she gasped. But now was not the time to vent our anger. It was time to protect the others. 'Kaniehtí:io,' Mother said urgently, 'go around every house and free the elders and children from harm. Make known the danger! Quickly!'

"I did not need to be told twice. My brain was still whirling like the clouds of thickening smoke, but I could not think. The only thing crossing my mind was urgency. I shan't talk much about the houses. All you need to know is that I performed my duty. Most huts were empty; everyone had evacuated to the village entrance. Almost everyone.

"The last house I came to was at the back of the village. Lungs heaving, muscles aching and sweat pouring, I entered the hut. This one was nearly engulfed by flames; several belongings were already burnt to a crisp. The vibrant orange demon was working away at the walls. But they were barely visible in the choking mist.

"The only person in the house was an old woman...Nitika. A friend of mine, who is extremely aged. If I had not come, she'd have stood no chance. I helped her up quickly and led her out. I went to check for anyone else inside the building.

"I can hardly remember much after that. Something must've stunned me: a hot fleck, or flying piece of black debris. It flew onto my shoulder like the spit of the devil. I clutched it to ease the scold...but that cost me valuable time. The door – which was so black by now that it may well have been torn from the night sky – caved in with a dreadful crash. I was trapped.

"I remember several things crossing my mind: life, death, the men, Mother, Father, my brothers...and my son. Where was Ratohnhaké:ton? Was he safe? Should I have died that horrific death, I wanted to know that my boy, my precious son, would live. As the flames slowly devoured my flesh, I dared not cry. My son would not want to see me suffer, should he have come. And he came.

"He tried to free me from the rubble, but I knew it was no use. The pain I was in was such that I could barely speak. The heartbreak in his tearful face was unbearable. It stung with a sadness greater than the blisters and burns. I told him to be strong. I told him to be brave. I told him that, no matter where he went or how old he grew, I would be with him. Always and forever.

"A hand grabbed him around the waist and pulled him to safety...just in time. I can never thank that person enough for saving his life. If only I knew who it was. With a feeble shout of 'I love you', the very last of the building caved in. I must've hit my head on one of the pieces. But that was the last time I ever saw my little boy.

"Now, here I am. Alive. And it's all your fault. You chose to save me, and no-one else. Why? Why bring me back from a deed that your Order committed? Why not just let me be? Why not just let me suffer? Why let their homes and belongings be swallowed by fire?

"I'll tell you why. Because I am the only one who ever mattered. I was the only one who ever had a heart, in your eyes. I was the only one worth saving. Because everyone else, in a Templar's eyes, is beneath him."


	8. Eight: Venomous

**ZIIO**

Even reciting the tale exhausted me. I sighed deeply and fell into the sheets, listening to the silence Haytham was somehow emitting. The awestruck look on his face said that this silence was not a tranquil kind.

"Well?" I barked. "What have you to say?"

No reply but a hard swallow.

"I know your true intentions, Haytham. You knew everything that I just said. I am here that I will give you the information the Templars need about the store –"

"I have no part in this." His voice was shaky; his eyes shimmering with disbelief. "Are you sure it was my men?"

"I am certain. I recognised each one of them."

Haytham's gaze didn't quite meet my own. Instead he stared at the wooden floor, his trembling mouth open. "Ziio, I told them to stay away from your village. I told them to remain by the precursor site and –"

"It is too late," I snarled. "It is done, and that does not make it any less your fault."

"Pardon?"

"Should you have disciplined your own brutal men, they'd have listened." I watched in hidden triumph as Haytham's eyes bulged. "You see? It is in a Templar's second nature to destroy. Should something or someone destruct them, they're sure to pay a heavy price. And what for? For your own selfish satisfaction."

He looked like he was about to protest, but thought better of it. Haytham took a quivery breath – quickly stabilised – and released it. His indigo eyes at last met mine...and something possessed me. Somehow his eyes glittered with sincerity; perhaps even concern. They reached down and sparked a strange feeling in my heart. Sparks of longing that had been dormant for five years, suddenly flashed their colourful clarity. Nostalgia? I couldn't tell. I'd been hurt countless times; many emotions were indistinguishable now. Maybe – _maybe_ – for a moment, I saw Haytham's flawless eyes as I used to see them.

What was wrong with me? Confusion, I predicted, and pinched myself away from these glowing emotions (and Haytham's gaze). I diverted my eyes and continued: "Now, please enlighten me. Why am I truly here?"

"That you might recover. I have told you many times before. Why would I lie to you, Ziio?"

"Why would you lie to me?" I repeated, my anger stirring like a hive of wasps. "Why _wouldn't_ you lie to me, is a more suited question! You told me that you were 'not the enemy'. You told me that you loved me. You told me that you were an Assassin. And do you not remember your parting words? 'I'll see you safe. You have my word.'?"

"Yes, and for that, I am sorry. But –"

"You promised," I cut across him swifty, "to keep us from harm. Did I not warn you that all a Templar thirsts for is the blood of those obstructing their goals? You did not listen. And now my village is in ruins."

"Ziio! How could you say that I inflicted pain upon you? I saved you, remember?"

"Why, Haytham?" I shouted. "Why did you save me? If not for the Templars, then what for?"

No answer. But to me, his face softening was enough. _He used to do that whenever I kissed him,_ I remembered with a certain sadness. Why was Haytham's subconscious seduction working on me? That was a trick of the past.

"I saved you for me," he said quietly, shuffling closer. "I saved you because you were once important to me. It was an instinct. A necessity. And it _hurt_."

To my amazement, he knelt down by the bed and rolled up his sleeves. Even as the fabric was halfway up I saw them...and grimaced. It turned out I was not the only one with blisters: Haytham's hands were swelled and red as blood. Lumps and swirls of broken skin extended right to his fingertips, and beyond. I was so stunned that I didn't notice that one of my plaits was brushing his palm. I jolted it away.

"The rubble was still hot when I found you. So..." he began to cover his hands with the white sleeves. "I had to make some...sacrifices."

I gasped, suddenly wanting to snatch back what I'd said. Haytham, chief of one of the cruelest Orders I knew of, saved my life out of the kindness in his heart. He'd peeled away half of the skin on his hand so that I wouldn't die. Were all Templars really the same? It made me wonder.

"Look, while we're on the subject of paying prices, I have a favour to ask."

Having just witnessed what Haytham did for me meant I couldn't refuse. Not that I knew what this 'favour' was.

"The Templars and I are having a meeting here tomorrow evening, to discuss our –" He cleared his throat to cover up my disgusted snort, "progress. I would appreciate it if you were to keep noise to a minimum."

"Why? In case your men discover a _savage_ in your bed?" I scoffed.

Haytham ignored me (much to my annoyance) and stood up. "For your information, my chambers are in the room next to yours. You have this room to yourself, as you will. But listen: heaven knows that it's best for both of us that my men do not know of your existence. Not a sound, you understand? Else they'll kill us both."

"Well, it would hardly a new mission to them," I hissed. "They have plenty of _experience_."

"Do we have a deal?"

"Fine."

"Excellent." Relief filled Haytham's voice, stifled by a false cough. "I shall see to it that you are looked after in the meantime."

With that he departed, leaving me to fall asleep.

* * *

**HAYTHAM**

I couldn't believe it. I _wouldn't _believe it. Charles, William and Thomas, disobeying my orders? All right, that was not the incredulous part. What was simply beyond comprehension was their deeds. I couldn't have been them. The only men likely to burn a peaceful village to ashes, nearly killing dozens, were the redcoats. But from the way Ziio described them...it could only be them.

My god, I'd never be able to look them in the eye at the meeting. I'd have to listen with clenched fists while they lied about their 'progress' by the precursor site. Why disobey me? Well, their disregard for Mohawks was apparent, but why venture into their land? Perhaps I should ask them.

No. It'll look too obvious.

On top of that, the other revelation was still buzzing in my mind: the boy. My son. My own flesh and blood, created in the image of Ziio and me. And he'd never even crossed my mind. Though I did not know of his existence beforehand, I felt terrible for not knowing. If I'd only known...my life would be very different. Would Ziio and I still be together, for our son's sake? I pictured him again: fly-away dark hair, sun-kissed skin, brown eyes...my son.

Poor child. He probably presumed his mother dead, and had little knowledge of his father.

_Oh my god...I am a father._

Usually that'd be a wonderful virtue. So why did the word make me feel so...disgraceful? Careless? Lowly? If anyone ever found out about this...there'd be scandal around every turn. I shuddered at the thought.

That wasn't the only thing bothering me: somehow I felt that Ziio and I had unfinished business to settle. Her words were venomous, as I'd predicted. But could I turn her around again? Probably not. But some of the things she said were no more than presumptions. I wanted to prove her wrong in so many ways. But sparring with her was exhausting us both. Before we spoke again, Ziio needed rest; I needed to think.


	9. Nine: The Letter

**ZIIO**

_No more tears._

_I have cried every last drop. But the flames won't extinguish. What is left of the roof drips onto my bleeding skin, intensifying the agony. The flames cackle like gaseous devils; they roll and lurch like the stomach of death. That is what is coming for me._

_I can barely breathe, watching the fire devour my bubbling flesh. The guise of thick smoke is such that I can barely open my eyes. The pain strengthens; it is like childbirth and one hundred blades put together. It throbs through my veins; pulses like my flickering heart; destroys my courage._

_When will this end? How much longer can I endure this? My lungs manage a feeble cough, clearing the smoke from my chest. I am too weak to moan, or cry. Why will I not die now? Please, let this torture end. Please._

_"Ista?"_

_Ratohnhaké:ton? It has to be. My heart – barely beating – does a leap taller than any flame in the melting building. My son! He is safe! Where is the voice? I clench my skin-stripped fists and bear the pain (despite my trembling body)._

_"Ista? Ista?"_

_I close my eyes. Is this all part of death? Does one hear voices of their loved ones? My smoke-corrupted body endures one last breath...and my throat unlocks._

_"R-Ratohnhaké:ton?"_

* * *

The dream changed...

* * *

_I am back in my senseless body. Suspended in a silence which screams. Screams at me to wake up. Wake up. My son needs me. My son is in danger. _

_"Ziio?"_

_The voice...there it is again. But this time, I recognise its owner. So why can I not picture their face? How do they pierce this blank oblivion before me? _

_"Ziio?"_

_The word echoes around the walls; the boundaries of this dream. They remind me that this can end. I can rise. I can remember...who is the owner of this voice? The single word: I think it is my name. It brings back a surge of colourless emotions: trust, mistrust, passion, anguish, joy, hatred...and love. I can shed light on these emotions. I just need to hear him. One more time._

_"I love you."_

_My body is falling, falling through the outstretch of darkness. Nothing will cushion my sudden surge of memory. Somehow – somehow – those three words are enough to bring sense to my body and blood to my limbs. Because of those words, I feel. I see a distant light and I hear gentle breaths. My breaths? That can only mean one thing._

_I am alive._

* * *

I blinked my eyes open. At first the ceiling was a foreign sight, and took my sluggish brain several seconds to recognise. Of course. I was here, in Haytham's home. I lay half-sunk into the soft bed, recalling my dream. Was it really Haytham's voice that gave me strength? Was it really him who awoke my frozen limbs?

_No. He is a figure of my past._  
_He cannot be a figure of the past, if he is in the same building as you._

As I sat up slowly, the pain in my limbs suddenly returned. I let out an unstoppable gasp – before sighing. I was utterly foolish to think that the pain would disappear so quickly. It was fate's golden odds that my heart was even beating.

_And you have Haytham to thank._

Haytham. The ringleader of the cruelest organisation formed in history. The man whose cool-headed logic and honeyed words had dissolved my hard outer crust. The man who used me like an animal; a thing, and left me with his mistake. And I had him to thank. To thank for burning my village to ash. To thank for breaking my little boy's heart. To thank for robbing him of his innocence, seeing his mother dying.

_Yes, thank you, Haytham, for ruining my life._

I watched my wall shadow in the flickering candlelight. It was then when I saw just how large the bandage on my head was: a distinct bulge in the silhouette's head spoke for itself. Was my head injury really that grave? The most painful parts were my legs. I supposed I was lucky that falling roof didn't deliver its final blow.

But I didn't want to recall the fire. It brought too much pain – not _physical_, materialistic pain – but the thought of my son. Even the flapping flame of the candle distracted me. I reached across and pinched it out. It was already evening by that time; I'd had several visits from Haytham's staff and the man himself in the day. One more visit, and I'd surely spit venom.

_I had better fall asleep, then._

* * *

**HAYTHAM**

That evening, I decided to pay one last visit to Ziio before I welcomed the Templars to the meeting. It was a very, very unwise decision, considering the outcomes of last time. But I needed to remind her to keep quiet.

I could hardly imagine her capable of stirring up any trouble in her condition. Why was I even bothering to remind her? I'd only receive a snide remark about the Order. Well, I'd have to endure it.

I knocked on the door quietly. For all I knew, Ziio could've been asleep. She wasn't; a muffled 'Yes?' was just about audible. I opened the door.

The room was almost in pitch darkness. For some reason Ziio had blown out the candle on the table; the only light came from the window to the left. The soft gleams of moonlight streaked through the glass and illumined her face as pure as I'd known it before. It was a tender, caring face, which was capable of affection. Ziio lay with her eyes closed on the pillow. Perhaps I'd interrupted her peaceful sleep. Never mind. She opened her eyes...and the illusion of her gentleness was gone.

"Why did you blow out the candle?" I asked.

"I wanted some sleep," she murmured. "Besides, I think I have seen enough fire for one life."

I tiptoed over to the table and picked up a small matchbox. "Well, I'm afraid you will have to bear with the candle for a few minutes. I only wish to speak."

Ziio huffed as if, given her way, she'd have this conversation in the dark, just to be difficult. _Excellent, _I thought, lighting the candle with a matchstick,_ I knew this would be a chore._

"Listen, I came to remind you to keep quiet tonight."

She grunted in disgust. Her eyes even seemed to darken at the mention of the meeting.

"Remember, it is for your sake as well as mine."

"That neither of us perish, I know. That would be _terrible_." The sharp sarcasm fired like the sting of a wasp. But I was used to its bitterness; I was immune.

"Good. Shall I mention the subject of...of the past few days' events to them?"

"No," she replied after a pensive moment, "too obvious. They will know that you were there."

"Fair point. Well made."

"You make it sound as if every idea I come up with is an unwise one," she snapped dramatically.

"Do I? Well, I do apologise."

"You do not mean that."

"Ziio," I sighed, "you are probably tired."

"No." Her voice rose; her shaky elbows just about supported her as she leant up. "I know you do not mean any of it. You never meant anything."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I fumed.

"I mean that you didn't mean even that apology. What about all the other times you were 'sorry'? When you lied about your affiliations? When I told you to leave and never return? Did you mean _that, _Haytham?"

So far I hadn't been affected by her words. So far Ziio's melodramatic conclusions weren't boiling my blood. So far I'd never assumed that Ziio would explode like a spiteful I was wrong.

"How dare you!" I exclaimed, leaping to my full height. My shadow towered over hers like the anger I unleashed. "How dare you say such irrelevant, disrespectful things!"

"Well?" she challenged. "Were you sorry? Have you ever regretted your actions? Did you ever look back and think: 'I wish I had told the truth. I wish I'd _cared._'? No. You never did. And here is proof." She indicated her bandage crossly.

"Care?" Even my head was quivering with fury. "Of course I did! I always did! And – if you ever thought otherwise – why would I have spent so much time with you all those years ago if I never loved you?"

"I have no proof of that."

Proof. Suddenly I remembered something with a rush of sharp nostalgia: the letter.

Just days after Ziio and I cut our ties, I wrote her a letter. I put my heart and soul into that thing; truly I did. I never delivered it, though: when Ziio told me never to return, she sure as hell meant it. So I'd kept it in my breast pocket for five years now. I'd looked at it once or twice, but tucked it away again.

"Yes, I have proof. I wrote you a letter of apology, honestly I did. I never gave it to you. I have it here."

"You were wasting your time," she hissed, "I can't read."

As much as I thought she was lying, I pulled it out of my coat pocket and said: "Fine. I will read it to you. Just hear me out. Please."

"No! I don't want to hear–"

"Ziio," I'd already interrupted: the very first word on the crumpled parchment was her name. My heart was hammering with determination. I straightened it out and read:

_Ziio,_

_I know you may never come read this. I know that when you discover who this letter is from, you will feed it to the wolves. That shan't stop me from trying._

_I wish you well. Whether I have made my point clear, I will probably never know. I am truly sorry for the bad note on which we parted. It was agonising enough for me walking away from you – the woman I loved – while tears spilled from your eyes, your chin quivering with shock and silent fury, knowing that I had broken your heart. I fail even now to comprehend how you must be feeling. Understand that I'm not trying to be sympathetic; to right all that I have done wrong. Well and truly I pray that you might recover the personality I knew and adored without me there._

_I shall make sure you never come to any harm. I owe you that, at the very least. My men are not to approach your village (nor any Mohawk) again. That includes me, as much as I resent it. I was given a choice between you and the Templars. I pondered on it for months. It crushed me with pressure and led me into the confusing depths of my busy mind. If anything it frightened me to see myself so emotional. But I came to a decision: there are too many barriers between us, Ziio. There are – as I once told you – no happy endings. Put quite simply, our lives are two polar opposites. Mine, one driven by order, purpose and (yes, I admit it) greed. Yours, a life of freedom and community, filled with satisfaction._

_And of course, William Johnson. As I have sworn not to harm your people, I plead you to return this vow. A harsh exchange it seems. But neither words nor actions can right what has been wrong...especially in your case._

_I dare not even wish for your forgiveness. I have shattered your heart into a thousand sharp pieces. I don't want to cut myself trying to pick them up again. But know this, Ziio. No matter what you may think of me now, no matter how many years roll past, no matter if you end up killing me for what damage I've caused, I will **always** be in love with you. Always._

_Yours,_

_Haytham Kenway._

* * *

**Hehehehe, and there it is, folks...I'd written the letter part even before I was halfway through You Have My Word, desperate to get ahead much... :P hope you liked it! Wait til you see Ziio's awestruck face (spoilers! Kinda!)**

**Thanks for reading! :D**


	10. Ten: Eavesdropping

**First, a few apologies: **

**1) For the time this took to post. I was on holiday with no internet access at all. I forgot to say! **

**2) For the abrupt end to this chapter. I'm afraid I was just so desperate to punch out a chapter so you guys weren't kept waiting. Sorry.**

**3) For the general rushed quality of the chapter. I hope it's not too bad; just bear in mind that it was a bit rushed...**

**Now, onwards with the story, my chums!**

* * *

**ZIIO**

Haytham snapped the letter shut with such a force that it shocked me. His eyes were dancing with passion; he was almost brooding for me to respond.

"There!" he spat. "And there you have it. I_ did_ care, Ziio. I have _always_ cared for your wellbeing. Just because I took a different path to the one you would've chosen, it doesn't make me heartless." He slammed the parchment onto the table and almost stormed from the room.

"Haytham..." I breathed, speechless.

The snap of the door interrupted my thought at once. But I'd already forgotten what I was thinking. I did not know _what_ to think. Every word on that page had a chilling effect on my heart. It beat me senseless; it left me stunned. How could words – no more than symbols on a page – have such a grasp on my heart? They were slowly suffocating it like a heartbreak, yet I felt no pain. All I could immediately decipher was astonishment.

At the same time, the words were soft. They caressed my soul like a silk blanket, peeling away my galvanised outer layer. All those honeyed lies – _'I will always be in love with you. Always.'_ – were nonsense, surely? Haytham wrote the letter a long time ago. But somehow, hearing his voice _now,_ repeating his words with such passion, made me doubtful. Maybe they weren't nonsense. Perhaps he still felt that way.

I couldn't prevent it. A spark of ecstasy lifted my spirits higher than the moon outside. Every ounce of my strength tried to batter the sudden joy...but nothing could slow my now racing heart. I gasped aloud, realising that Haytham's preoccupation wasn't beyond possibility.

_After all these years...could it be?_  
_Ziio, stop! You are falling back into his trap. He wants to soften you again, and throw you like an unbroken beast. Why else would the Templars send him to find you?_

A sinking feeling made the shadows on the wall a little darker. It was obvious, come to think of it. Charles and the other Colonials couldn't get answers from me, but they all knew one person who could: their own Grand Master.

Yes, Haytham was always good at feigning ignorance. He was a born actor. All those lies...'I'll see you safe' and 'I love you' and 'I suppose you could say that' he was an Assassin. The were just bitter examples. Pretending not to know of Charles' deeds was another to add to the list. At last I sighed, concluding that the letter was probably as untruthful as the hidden blades on his wrists.

_What a shame...he wrote the letter so beautifully._  
_Stop, Ziio. You mustn't._

* * *

**HAYTHAM**

I spent the next hour clenching and unclenching my fists. How could a face that striking be so malevolent? So...sceptical? The only time I'd ever lied was about my affiliation. It stirred up a storm inside me every time Ziio doubted it. That was in the past, as was my men's behaviour that caused her to hate the Templars with such vigour.

Or was it?

_My god, I have to face them tonight,_ I realised. How on earth could I look my men in the eye and sit through a discussion of falsehood? I knew of every one of their crimes. They nearly killed her. The woman I once loved.

An image crashed across my eyes: of her innocent, blood-stained face in the ferocious fire. She was so helpless; so innocent, like a porcelain doll. It wasn't just the sight of _a_ woman dying that made my heart miss a beat. It was _the_ woman that caused it. Even now, every time I was in that room, her matted hair, battered face and devil-scratched skin held a certain beauty. The beauty that tore me away from everything that I thought mattered. _Everything._

Reading that letter gave me a new (or rather, old) type of passion. I was not embarrassed in the slightest by reading it. Was that strange? It lifted me to my old, romantic ways. I remembered when I really did feel all those things I wrote about. So why didn't they seem too distant? The emotions that only Ziio could awaken were _lightly_ dormant. And now they were stirring. Not a single part of me tried to stop them.

Maybe it was because she was here. Maybe it was because of what my men did. I wasn't to know.

There was a knock on my office door. I looked up from the wooden desk, calling: "Come in."

Rose peeped around the door shyly. "I have prepared tea for your guest...forgive me, but I have forgotten her name. Diio?"

"Ziio," I corrected, remembering with a sting that 'Diio' was an early mistake I made.

"Ziio. Shall I take it up to her now before your colleagues arrive?"

I sighed. They'd be here soon, I thought, looking at the darkness outside the window behind me. "Yes, please," I responded. "And Rose?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do tell her to keep quiet tonight."

Rose bowed her capped head, and closed the door gently. Well, that was one of my worries sorted. Now, the meeting...

* * *

**ZIIO**

"All for me?" I gasped, still astonished.

"Every last crumb," beamed Haytham's maid.

I gawked at the silver tray placed before me. Every type of food I'd ever tried from Boston was there: flaky white pastry, crimped to form a perfect pie. Inside, pieces of warm, specially-cooked meat lay waiting to be eaten. Plants like tender flowers, with petals removed. On another gleaming dish there were berries that I'd never seen in the forest before, in juicy colours that I couldn't resist.

"Wow," I breathed. "Thank you."

She bowed her head and almost curtseyed. I smiled at her sweetness; her willing to be kind. _At least there is one person in this house whom I can trust._

"Before you go..." I stopped her as she headed for the door.

"Yes, Ziio?"

"May I ask you to leave the door open?"

Rose bit her pearly lips. "W-well," she stammered, looking at her feet, "I think that'd be against Master Kenway's orders."

_Haytham this, Haytham that. He isn't worth obeying! _

"He needn't know," I smirked. "In any case, should you find yourself in trouble because of it, tell Haytham that it was on my orders."

Rose looked at the door like it'd give her comfort, but nodded. "All right. As you wish." She wandered over to the old desk and scraped the chair along the floor, placing it by the door.

Now, I could hear everything those bastards were saying.


	11. Eleven: An Unreasonable Mission

**ZIIO**

For nearly an hour I sat irritated.

All I could hear in the beginning was men's voices greeting one another from downstairs. Eventually they became more muffled, which – I worked out later on – was good news: they had sat down to dinner.

So I decided to do the same. Although the feast Rose delivered took my senses to bliss, I needed to listen. I placed the tray down with difficulty: my legs were still paralysed from the pain.

The clatter of cutlery and clink of glasses was barely audible. I had not seen the downstairs of Haytham's house, but I assumed that the room they ate in had no door. I could hear every word of their unimportant chatter. Why would they not hurry up and talk about their work; their wreckage of my land and life, if it was so paramount?

Finally, while I lay drumming my fingers on my full stomach, the word 'land' flung my eyelids open again.

"So, what of the land?" Haytham asked.

"We have made no progress," another replied. "We obeyed your orders and continued our excavations in the West and by the storehouse itself."

_Why, you filthy, lying bastards,_ I thought. I was so occupied with stirring up anger in my head that I missed the next spoken sentence. I did hear its response from a cockney-sounding voice:

"No. We all stayed put, I promise."

Silence. Only the scraping of a knife against the masonry they ate from. I tensed, listening like a predator ready to pounce.

"I see. And what of George Washington?"

"Rumour has it that he has been wreaking havoc in the forest. Apparently he marched upon a Mohawk village just a few days ago."

"Oh?" Haytham seemed intrigued.

"It was only a rumour," the man dismissed. "Not most believable, either. Why would Washington waste time on those savages, in any case?"

I was only too used to the word 'savage'. It didn't vex me: only fill me with resentment.

"He might, you know." Haytham paused, before carefully saying: "Wait...from whom did you hear this?"

"Um...oh, I cannot recall, some men talking in a tavern, I think."

"Most unlike you to forget, Charles."

"Sorry, Haytham. I have been rather...busy of late. My memory is not at its optimum."

"Never mind. So, tell me, what do you all propose we do next? Clearly our recent efforts have taken us no further. I have skirted the edges of the Tribal land, without entering it. What steps should we take now?"

"I think that we should venture further into the land and question some Natives...peacefully, of course."

_By setting fire to their village, yes._

"William," Haytham sighed, "I already told you that I have no intentions of dragging the Natives into this again."

"But they are no threat, are they? They are the most knowledgeable about this land, aren't they?" the supposed 'William' replied.

_Wait...William. William Johnson...?_  
_Could it be?_  
_The man who killed my father and brothers. I knew it.  
Calm yourself, Ziio._

"Yes. That is very true, but you forget: the amulet is not their problem. It is ours and ours alone. We don't want to go starting wars, do we?"

Was I hearing this correctly? Was Haytham really defending my tribe? I felt a rush of thankfulness, missing the next few speeches. That...that was awfully kind of him. But why? Because he knew I might be listening?

I doubted it. There was something else.

* * *

Later on that evening I re-read Haytham's letter time and time again. I imagined what was going through his mind when he wrote it. I pictured him sat at the wooden desk in the corner, his flawless eyes sparkling with heartbreak and biting his soft lip. I pictured the pure emotion spilling from his heart and into the ink. I watched the quill drift across the page, the raw passion flowing through the strokes and dashes. A passion that came from deep within.

All this time I'd thought he was a monster. My own son believed that his father was no father to him; just a ghost from his mother's troubled past. I was wrong.

Yes, he was a Templar. Yes, it was his men who murdered my father and brothers, before destroying our wonderful village. But that wasn't the Haytham I knew. He was selfless, cool-headed, wise and caring as a mother wolf nurturing her cubs. That was the one I knew. But the moment the word 'Templar' was thrown into the equation, everything was distorted. Suddenly he was a fiendish demon with intentions of killing innocents.

_What if Haytham has never changed?_

That must have been the eye-opener. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop the feelings latching on my heart like mosquitoes. The realisation swept over me; a wave of emotions which concluded one terrible, terrible thing.

_Part of me may never have stopped loving._

Only part of me. That would do no harm, would it? Love could never blossom again for us, anyway. All ties were broken, and all trust was destroyed long ago. It would never work. Heaven knows how Haytham and I thought that our relationship would last even then. I simply told him that 'Fate will guide us. Have faith.', but now I knew he was right in that letter. Our lives _were_ polar opposites. His men's behaviour was an example of his dreadful lifestyle.

My subconscious was so entwined with the letter that a man's voice made my heart lurch in surprise. It was much quieter downstairs now; I'd missed half of the Templars' little dinner party. Only two voices were audible...and no longer muffled.

"Right, I ought to be heading home," groaned a voice.

"In the dark?" It was Haytham.

"Yes, I suppose. Alas, I have had a little too much to drink..."

_It sounds like William Johnson_. My insides squirmed, just at the thought of his name.

"You could stay the night here," Haytham suggested.

I gasped aloud. Surely this was the only spare chamber Haytham had? What if Johnson discovered me here? I could hardly run away in my condition. _Haytham, you fool! Don't allow him here!_

"Oh, thank you, Haytham! Thank you, thank you, thank you. I shall leave early tomorrow morning. I shan't cause any bother..."

His voice was getting closer. Was he ascending the stairs? My heart jolted like a firing musket. What was I going to do? I couldn't run! I closed my eyes, begging, pleading for my safety...

"Ho there –" Haytham's spilled relief over me like refreshing water. "Where are you going?"

"To your spare bedroom," he replied.

"Ah – well, I forgot to mention...the bed is broken in there. I'm afraid you may have to sleep in the drawing room. Is that alright with you?"

"Oh, that's fine! So long as I'm not on the floor!" he cackled.

* * *

_"You are hurt," I murmur, awestruck by his wound._

_"Agh, it's nothing." He touches his bleeding cheek...only to wince in pain._

_Thinking quickly, I reach behind the bar for a bottle of alcohol and pour it onto my handkerchief. I hesitate before I press it to his tender face. What is holding me back? Am I – for the first time in years – afraid?_

_"Here." I shake my head and proceed...but nothing stops the prickling feeling when the liquid seeps through his skin. But it is a pleasant type of sharpness; like juice from the forest fruits. "This should stop the bleeding."_

_His eyes meet mine for the first time. They adjust and swell, their mysterious blue drinking my coyness in. His pupils shimmer with wonder and amazement, which – although feels like a strict inspection – fills my heart with a beautiful confusion. Suddenly I am trapped; I cannot tear my gaze away...but I like it._

* * *

When I turned over my eyes were already drooping. I became lost in a different dream...

* * *

_"Ziio?"_

_I lie stifling my shivers in the bone-chilling snow. My arms clench and quiver like trees, but I must stay still for the joke to work._

_"Ziio? Where are you?" The panic in his voice intensifies. __Footsteps crunch in the snow as he comes closer...followed by a gasp of horror. "Oh my god...ZIIO!"  
_

_I feel his warm hands gripping my own, feeling for a pulse. His frantic fingers stroke my forehead; my stomach doubles backwards, despite my attempts to stop it. If I haven't given myself away, I may as well now before his heart stops dead._

_"Scared you, didn't I?" I smirk, eyes still closed._

_"Ziio!" He lurches backwards in fright, before recovering himself. "DON'T...YOU EVER...DO THAT...TO ME...AGAIN!"_

* * *

My eyes whipped open at once. The irate words rebounded in my head, making my heart hammer at double speed. While catching my breath I contemplated my surroundings. Darkness. Moonlight beaming outside the window. A candle flickering somewhere outside an open door, propped against the wall with a wooden chair.

_I'm still here, _I realised with disappointment._ It was just a dream about..._  
_About Haytham. About...us._

I sat up, and heard something crinkly fall from my arm. I'd fallen asleep holding his letter. Perhaps that was the reason for my odd sleeping memories...who knows. I picked it up and straightened the paper out. There was just enough light from outside for me to see the words.

At that point, one particular memory of our days together came back: Koshisigre's rescue. When I told Haytham the terrible story of my father and brothers' deaths. When I mentioned what I knew about the man who caused their untimely downfall, Haytham had turned paper-white. Why did I not realise the instant recognition in his face? It was William Johnson: the man responsible. His corrupt hands were stained with the blood of my own family. And his master was no other than the man I once loved. Haytham kept this from me for a long time. Until it was too late.

Johnson was just downstairs. Just a few second's walk. I felt a raging backwash of uncontrollable loathing for him. I could kill him in his sleep, if I wanted to. Haytham couldn't stop me.

With a new determination I replaced the letter on the table. I needed to practise standing up first. How painful would it be? Even dragging my legs along the mattress felt like running a blade along them. Brushing my white nightgown off, I leaned forward, attempting to lever myself up. I knew my arms were far too weak. But I'd have to try, like a fledgeling learning to fly. It'd be worth the slaughter.

My feet were numb, but I could feel the wood brushing my heels. Immediately pain swept up my legs, making me tense in agony. The burns all over my body throbbed angrily. They made my legs give way; I collapsed on the wooden floor with a dull _thud._

_Clever move, Haytham,_ was the first thing I thought. _Hiding me prisoner here, too weak in my condition to cause any harm. Well played._

* * *

**Well that was a long chapter! I hope you like it. Favourite/follow/review etc! Thank you :)**


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